Tuesday, October 1, 2013

I have a last name now--or at least my pen name does. Due to the informal nature of my writing, I had never had any inclination to add one, but after Tim Whitcher continued my story as part of a flash fiction contest, it seems like two letters is not nearly enough to sign my work.

Julia
leaned against the railing, basking in the light and heat radiating from the
propane lamp standing in the roof patio’s corner. Like every other college-town
‘it-bar’ Altus drew from every social stratum: rich, poor, urban, rural, Greek,
GEED. What passed for cosmopolitan in a southern college-town, combined with
the noise, made Altus a good place to meet discretely if you could talk over
the din.

Almost9:30, Julia thought. She frowned. Sam said this guy would be freakishly punctual. She reached into
her pocket for a cigarette.

“Any to share?”

Julia looked to
her right to see an average boy about her age. He wasn’t unattractive, but aside
from the faux-hawk he styled his hair into everything about him was utterly
forgettable. The way he carried himself, Julia got the impression he preferred
things that way.

Julia handed him a
cigarette. He lit hers, then his, took a draw. He looked her up and down and
smirked, pleased.

“The street’s
pretty tonight, eh?” He turned to look over the railing and Julia followed
suit, sliding closer.

“You have my fee?”

Julia handed him
her clutch. The boy opened it, looked inside, then put it inside his jacket.

“It’s funny,” he
said. “A girl like you usually buys pot, adderall; coke or molly once in a
while. Not this stuff.”

“You get all sorts
of surprises when your assumptions about people are based on how they fit their
jeans.”

He grinned,
blowing smoke out his nose, forming a temporary mustache. “True, but certain
substances attract certain types. From what you requested, you’re not partying,
you’re after answers.”

Julia flinched,
but played it off as a shiver in the cold. She took a drag and exhaled.

The boy’s smile
faded.

“I’m giving you
what you asked for, make no mistake. But seriously reconsider how badly you
want to enter Eden. There’s a reason I’m selling you ingredients, not the final
product.

“Sam said you had
a sober partner, and that you were both chemists, otherwise I wouldn’t have
agreed to supply this particular assortment. But this goes beyond science and
into something far more ambiguous…and disturbing. People sometimes come back
wrong from acid. People sometimes come back right
from a pilgrimage to Eden.”

Julia’s eyes
narrowed. “I’m not stupid.”

“This isn’t a
stupid person’s mistake.”

A pair of hands in
the crowd behind them hooked a full-sized purse onto Julia’s free hand. She
looked in that direction and saw nothing. She looked back towards the boy, but
he was gone.

…

“You two know what
you’re doing?” John asked. He eyed them from the door, more wary of his friends
than being discovered.

“Just watch the
hallway,” said Julia.

“It’s Saturday
night, and Katie says no one’s come to this floor of the Aerospace lab since…everything.”

The three of them
had set up shop in the radiation room, four floors below ground, where three of
their friends had done the same two months ago.

“You don’t want to
find out what happened?” Julia said, measuring the things the dealer sold them
in the amounts Katie specified.

“I just think
there are other avenues to explore that don’t involve pseudo-science and
potential brain damage.”

Julia poured the
requested amount into a test tube, handed it off, then stood and stretched.

“Other avenues,” Julia
said, walking around their circular work area. She gave a dry laugh. “You mean
after the police gave up. After two private investigators gave up, and the
third laughed us away before we could ask. Other avenues, for the three kids
who vanished into thin air. No struggle, no foul play, not a single possession
missing.”

“Doctor Snider—“
John began.

“Will not tell us
anything! Just because the police couldn’t implicate him doesn’t mean he
doesn’t know what happened. Why else would he take his sabbatical four months
early? It would draw too much attention.”

John looked away.
“He has to be guilty. What else could it be?”

Julia folded her
arms. “I don’t know John, but this is our best shot. Snider was the head of
Theoretical Physics, and Kyle, Ian, and Karla were working with him on fringe
theories, so a little ‘pseudo-science’ comes with the territory. Besides, that
one night we all saw—“

Now John snapped.
“You saw something, I was drunk. You must have been drunk
too.”

Julia bit her
thumb. John had been drunk walking
through an alley downtown, but Katie had seen the same thing in a lab on the
top floor of the chemistry building…and Julia had seen it walking into her
apartment bedroom.

It looked like
Ian, but where he had been thin, the thing had been gaunt. It had been
partially translucent, glowing with white light along its skin like it had
stepped off a television screen. Julia had frozen as the thing that wasn’t Ian
turned towards her, snarled, and let out a horrendous screech. John had fled,
almost getting hit by a car; Katie had screamed, drawing the attention of night
guards who found her sobbing in a closet two floors down; but Julia had
remained frozen as it charged her, feeling a strange tingle as it passed
through her, ghostlike. When she turned it had vanished.

“Done,” Katie
said.

She stepped back.
A soft mat and a pillow lay in the center of three concentric rings, one of
copper wires, one of salt and one of yellow oil. Julia stepped inside and laid
on the mat.

“How many
hallucinogens are we dealing with again?” she asked.

“If you lost
count, I don’t think you want a reminder,” said Katie. She flicked a syringe.
“Last chance to chicken out.”

“Better stick me
then.”

Julia closed her
eyes, and relaxed. She felt a prick on her arm, followed by pressure. She counted
until five minutes had passed, focusing on slow, deep breaths.

Friday, August 9, 2013

As part of one of the Terribleminds flash fiction challenges, I originally wanted to do Beerpunk, but that closed off a few possibilities. Instead, I give you a Boozepunk tale entitled: "The Craft Rebellion."

Final word count ended up being 1053, so that disqualifies me, but I hope you enjoy the read.

Shane scanned
Lupara’s from the bar, sipping a Luna Sapphire, the pain fading as the alcohol counteracted
the tumor emissions. Aside from the near-absence of patrons, the pub seemed the
same, save for the smudged glassware—that would have mortified the girls—and a gutted bank of taps, formerly hidden
behind a sliding wood panel. “Now What?“
he thought.

“You look like you
know fine beer, good sir!”

Shane turned. A
man in a suit sat to his left, about Shane’s age, early thirties His head was
shaved.

Shane gave him a
puzzled, but friendly smile. “I’m no expert. Just consuming my evening ration.”

“Sir, you lie.”
The man’s voice had a subtle, but hard southern accent. “No one comes to a
place like this out of obligation and drinks the most expensive Guild beer unless
they value brewing. You’re a Crafter.” He grinned. “Isn’t that right Shane?”

Shane clenched his
pint glass. “What do you want?”

“Same as you. I’m
looking for Brewmaster Shaw.”

“I looked. I
couldn’t find anything.”

The bartender
watched them from the corner of her eye as she washed a pint glass, her mouth
tight. The suit arched his eyebrows.

“You’d give up
that easily on—? Okay, I understand. Let’s try this.” He snapped his fingers at
the bartender. “Sazerac; no bitters and extra bourbon.”

The bartender
frowned. “Sir, we’re under new ownership. Our selection is Guild approved.”

The man put $200
on the bar. “And I’m sure you complied and turned in all prohibited spirits.”
He placed another seventy-five in her palm. “Especially the fancy brews that
would appeal to my friend here.”

Shane ordered. The
waitress went to the back, brought their drinks, and disappeared. The man
sipped his cocktail while Shane took a long pull on his new pint, focusing on
the bitter floral and pine taste and the smooth thickness of the beer.

The man sighed
contentedly, then appraised Shane’s beer.

“Double IPA. Your
taste is superb.”

“ABC or not, the
same goes to you. Talk.”

The suit turned
back to his Sazerac. “It’s a sad world when a man can’t just enjoy his drink.”

“I didn’t realize
you wanted a drinking buddy.”

“You
misunderstand. I’m talking about before The Guild took power, before the Tremens
Gas was released, before people didn’t literally need a drink every morning and night. I miss drinking things that
weren’t state-mandated piss. That’s why I want to find your friend.”

“Why don’t you do
it? And why Jessica? She was small-volume.”

The suit swirled
the ice in his glass. “Ms. Shaw was
small-volume, but she was working on something far more ambitious than quality
beer, something that scared The Brewers Guild. My associates and I have great
interest in anything that scares them. As for you, I need someone unknown that
has solid brewing knowledge and won’t give up easy. Plus, you have a personal
stake in this. Two, if I’m not mistaken.”

Shane almost choked
on his beer. “Katherine’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t say
‘okay’, but she is alive. The Guild thinks
she has information. But if you help us find Brewmaster Shaw, we’ll have enough
leverage to sway The Guild to almost anything.”

Shane took a long
swallow of beer. “What do you need me to do?”

The suit passed
Shane a thumb drive. “The two people on here can help find where your friend is
hiding and bring her plans to completion: The Agronomist, and The Populist.
Find them, talk to them, and you’ll find her.”

Shane pocketed the
drive. “Then what?”

Before the suit
replied a man shouted; “FREEZE!”

They turned to
find seven ABC agents blocking the door. Each of them stood with a glass of
carbonated gold liquid in one hand, a shot glass of wine-colored liquor poised
to drop into the larger glass in the other.

“I don’t know how
you jammed our bugs, but we’re going to need you to come with us for a chat.”

Like gunslingers,
Shane and The Suit drew flasks from their pockets, opened and gulped in one
fluid motion. Shane tasted citrus, and more pine than there were trees in the North.
He assumed a fighting stance just as the Jaegerbombers tossed their glassware
to the floor. They roared as their muscles inflated like life rafts and they
charged the duo; three to Shane and four to The Suit.

Shane felt slow
and ponderous as he moved, but he also felt strong. The first agent to close
the gap was reckless, running straight into the punch that Shane threw,
destroying most of his face. The others were less cavalier, but still
aggressive. They struck fast and furious across Shane’s body, but he simply
walked backwards, absorbing each blow. During his retreat, he saw The Suit
fighting two agents over two of their collapsed partners. His cocktail wasn’t
as quick, but it matched theirs for raw strength, and his simple yet refined
technique surpassed their haphazard strikes.

Shane bumped into
a wall. Exactly where he wanted them. He tensed his body, guarding his face,
and let the Jaegerbombers pound away at his arms and upper body. One of them
unleashed a flurry of punches on his torso, only realizing his broken fingers
twenty punches in. He stopped, screaming in pain, and went down like a sack of
flour when Shane backhanded his temple.

The final
Jaegerbomber ran. Shane lumbered after him, but the high-gravity’s effects were
making him sluggish. As they re-entered the main room, he ran past his fallen
comrades and The Suit, collapsing halfway out the door. The Suit studied him.

“That’s why I
don’t drink energy cocktails. I’d like to die from heart failure after thirty-five.”

Shane vomited a
little, then stood back up. “So what now?”

“Now, we go our
separate ways.Everything you need
is on the drive. You don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

“What do I call you?”

The Suit smiled
and straightened his lapels. “You can call me Arthur. And once you’ve got the
whole gang together, we’re going to change the world.”

He turned and
walked out into the night. Shane purged the rest of the adrenaline and excess
beer, then followed suit.

Friday, July 5, 2013

After clicking the random button at TVTropes until I got one suitable for prose, I finally got "Boxed Crook". So here's my story; "Equal and Opposite." (Full disclosure, the final word count is over the limit at 1,069.)

Megan’s breath echoed in her ears
as she breathed through the respirator. With delicate movements she attached
the wide device to the boards above her head, careful not to disturb the
container’s volatile contents. Once it was secured, she inched back through the
narrow space between her ceiling and the floor above, climbed down a ladder to
her floor as quietly as possible, and sat on the floor, leaning against a wall.
She sighed, relieved.

She took off her
safety goggles, a balaclava, the respirator and some gloves, shaking her blond
hair free. She placed them in a tub with the rest of her clothes, then took a
shower to rinse off the dust, using a pen to prod a washcloth under her ankle
monitor. She grimaced when she washed her cheek, the bruise that lay there
still fresh. Before they roughed her up, Megan’s cute round face helped convey
the image of a wholesome Midwestern girl, the sort of girl who would fix your
car and bake you a prize-winning dessert for the road.

Not the sort of
girl who used her chemistry degree to assassinate people with homemade bombs.

Megan dried off
and dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and running shoes. She picked up a detonator
and sat in a chair in the other room, watching the hole she cut into the
ceiling through the doorway.

Three had jumped
her and made the offer: kill a defector for them, and they’d forgive her murder
of twenty-two leaders of the Acacia crime family. Plus, she’d be hired for the
defector’s old job.

She’d smirked,
nonchalant, and asked, “What job is that?”

“The Acacia family’s
assassin on retainer,” Lucas replied.

Megan’s poker face
shattered. She’d begged, saying she’d do anything else, kill anyone but him.
But when her alternative was taking a trip to the wharf with some padlocks and boat
chain, she chose the hit.

Trying to
assassinate Arkin Stone was safer than certain death, but not by much.

After she’d
accepted, they gave her a phone, the ankle monitor, ten thousand dollars for
expenses, information on Arkin, and two weeks. After wasting a day and a half
trying to get the monitor off, she collapsed on her apartment floor sobbing. No
trick she had would remove the monitor without crippling her or alerting them.
She could run, but not far.

After falling
asleep under a table, she woke up the next morning and almost returned to
hysterics. Instead, she took a deep breath and stood. She opened Arkin’s file
and had a plan by sunset.

Arkin was too
cautious for car bombs. He’d be especially vigilant of tails so soon after
killing more Acacias than Megan had, he prepared all his own food, and
seduction, in addition to its other unpleasant aspects, was so transparent it was
drawn out suicide. But after looking at Arkin’s address, she found her one remotely
plausible option.

After the Acacias persuaded
the apartment’s owner to lend Megan the key, she spent a week logging Arkin’s
comings and goings until she knew safe times to work. Even then, she sawed
slowly, making as little noise as possible in case he had security with audio recording.
Procuring bomb ingredients was much easier, smuggling them in grocery bags,
hidden in boxes of cereal. Assembly and design were child’s play. All that
remained was the wait.

A door creaked
open upstairs and Megan shot up, alert. She stalked through her own apartment
as she followed the footsteps above her, caressing the detonator’s button with
her thumb. After some time, she paused in the bedroom’s doorway, waiting for
him to get on his bed. For what seemed like ages, he moved to one part of the
room for a bit, then moved on, never once touching the bed. “Come on,” Megan murmured,
clenching the doorframe with her free hand.

“Come on and?” a
voice asked, as something metal pressed into the back of Megan’s head.

Her heart stopped.
Arkin pushed her into the room with his free hand, took the detonator away,
then duct taped her to a chair. She looked at him and asked, “How?”

“You really think
I wouldn’t keep tabs on all my neighbors? You did admirably well, but I have
this wonderful toy that scans cell calls. I could have killed you anytime, but
it wouldn’t have sent the…proper message to my old employers.” He looked up at
the hole in the ceiling, then smiled at her before climbing the ladder. Megan
said nothing and hung her head.

“I thought you
were a pro, dear,” Arkin’s voice called down, as he unscrewed the brackets
holding the bomb in place, his calves and feet hanging out the hole. “No
pressure plates, no hidden wires, nothing to defuse. I guess when I let my
friend upstairs in, we’ll be gentler than usual. It’s the least we can do.” He
palmed the bomb’s bottom to keep it from falling before he unscrewed the last
bracket.

“Now, would you
prefer a beating first or—“

There was a hiss
as the oils from his skin reacted with the bomb’s coating and dissolved a hole
in the metal. Several liters of liquid came through the palm-sized hole and
drenched Arkin. He tried to scream as the acid melted his face, but some had
fallen into his open mouth and melted a hole in his throat. As air rushed
through the hole the only sound he made was a thin sucking noise, growing
fainter as the hole widened. His legs thrashed, twitched, then stopped.

…

Some time later,
Lucas Acacia and his cohorts knocked out Arkin’s friend as he tried to break
down Megan’s door. They stormed into the apartment to find the bizarre scene in
her bedroom. Lucas was the one who finally broke the dumbfounded silence.

“How?”

Megan shrugged.
“He was too crafty to kill with a bomb. I had to get creative.”

“You planned
this,” he deadpanned.

“Not exactly, but
Arkin is—was—the kind of guy that required an unpredictable Plan B, and if the
bomb didn’t kill him, I needed a hell of a Hail Mary.” Megan narrowed her eyes
at them nervously, suddenly remembering she was taped to a chair.

“You are going to
honor your part of the deal, right?”

“Of course Ms.
Vanzetti,” Lucas said, waving his hand. He stared at the hole. “We’ll discuss
the details in the car.”

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Welcome to my blog! The following is my third story--and first submission--for Chuck Wendig's weekly flash fiction challenge. Click the URL for full details: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/01/11/flash-fiction-challenge-the-wheel-part-two/

Although you are supposed to do this with an RNG, I only rolled for two of the aspects because the subgenre (Teenage Noir) was irresistible to me. I'm a big fan ofBrick and Veronica Mars.
Anyway, the story by the numbers:

SUBGENRE: 8, Teenage Noir

CONFLICT: 6, Heist Gone Wrong

MUST FEATURE: 4, A bottle of rare whiskey

WORD COUNT (Sans title): 998

Without further ado, I give you:

Tessa Collier In the Drink

Normally when
someone my age steals booze, it involves pouring water in the vodka bottles in Dad’s
liquor cabinet or a five-finger discount on a thirty-rack of Natty at Wal-Mart.
It normally doesn’t involve a $50,000 bottle of whiskey or the school’s
resident thug trying to fence it to collectors. But since my life consists of
one long Veronica Mars impression, minus the murdered friend, nothing is normal
for me.

Like Jackson, the
guy I was stealing from, most of my family wound up in jail for various crimes,
and like Jackson I continue to exhibit the troublesome impulses that led them
there. The difference is that Jackson doesn’t try to change anything, whereas I
try to channel my urges into white-hat criminal activities. At least that’s
what I told myself as I picked a lock in four seconds.

I slipped through
the window into Jackson’s basement bedroom and started looking for the bottle
Adrian sent me after.

Adrian Martin. A
sniveling, whiny rich kid that makes Joffery Lannister look like an Eagle Scout.
Adrian threw a party for damn near everyone in school while his parents were
gone, like most teenagers. But in his arrogance and entitlement, he decided to
sample some of his Dad’s best stuff with a small group of friends. The next
morning he replaced what they had taken in the classic refill manner, only to
discover the one he hadn’t dared open, the collection’s crown jewel, was gone;
stolen while they were sleeping it off. He called me immediately, knowing my
reputation and offered me the second-largest amount of money I had ever been
offered for a job.

I couldn’t pass
that up. I contacted my usual sources and everything they said pointed here.

Bass pounded from
upstairs. Jackson’s party kept him occupied while I searched his room. Twenty
minutes later, I sat in Jackson’s chair, feet on his desk and lit a cigarette. Where the hell did you hide it? I mused
to myself, taking a drag. I sifted through the magazines and books on his desk.
An issue of Whiskey Advocate, an
issue of Wine Spectator, a guide to
craft beers, a history of wine, three
books about whiskey. You’re full of
surprises aren’t you? I thought, smiling. I shuffled through a stack of High Times and junk mail until I found
it.

I initially tossed
it aside, but something nagged at me. I took a second look: it was a print out
from an online sewing tutorial.

“You might be full
of surprises, but surely not that many,” I murmured. My eyes scanned the room.
He wouldn’t use a coat; the weight, if not the bulge, would give it away. A big
enough person would feel it sitting on the couch.

My eyes landed on
Jackson’s bed. It had a new mattress, the foot-thick memory foam kind.

I walked over,
removed the topsheet and examined the edge all the way around. On the side facing
the wall there was a small stitch job, recent, but not eye-catching unless you were
looking for it.

I reached in my
pocket. Marilyn was full of it: a carbon-steel Gerber and a good whetstone are
a girl’s best friends.

I opened the
knife, cut the stitching and felt inside. From a hollowed-out section of the
mattress I pulled out an old green bottle with a crumbling wax seal logo on the
side. Just like Adrian had described: an old bottle of Glenfiddich, worth 50 grand;
more depending on the batch.

A door slammed
closed. My cigarette dropped from my mouth when I looked up. Jackson, all six-nine,
280 pounds of him, was there.

“We can probably
skip the part where I say ‘This isn’t where I parked my car’, right?” I said.

“Why do you have
my whiskey Tessa?” Jackson asked.

“Same reason as
you. Cash.”

“Not everything’s
about money, midget.”

I remembered the
desk. I understood. “You were never going to sell this.”

“I don’t have the
contacts to get what it’s really worth. I figure I’ll enjoy it instead of
letting it collect dust in a rich dude’s house.”

“It’ll take you
awhile to ditch the evidence if you’re going to savor it.”

“Yeah about that.”
Jackson started approaching. “You’re gonna have to shack up in the closet for a
few days. Don’t worry though. I’ve got a bucket for you.”

“Let’s hope you
have a mop too.”

I tossed the
bottle in a high arc. Jackson shouted and dove backwards, grasping for it. He
landed on the ground, making a catch that would have made Jerry Rice proud. As
he sat up, I ran forward and kicked him square in the nose.

I snatched the
bottle, grabbed the windowsill and crawled through it just fast enough to feel
Jackson’s fingers scrape the soles of my sneakers. Unable to fit through after
me, he just yelled “GET HER!”

There were a few
people outside now, but they were spread out enough for me to slalom around
them before they knew what was happening. I ran like hell, vaulting over fences
and zigzagging through backyards towards the town creek, flowing fast with
summer rain.

I reached a
two-lane bridge, shouts echoing behind me as they chased me. My lungs and calves
screaming in agony, I made one last sprint, vaulted the guard wall and penciled
into cold water. I floated to a bridge a few miles downstream then crawled
ashore and curled up, exhausted, in a culvert under the bridge to rest a few
minutes, hugging the bottle close.

I passed out
immediately. The next morning, I dug a waterproof flip phone out of my pocket.